


Tunnels

by backseatghibli



Category: Original Work
Genre: Apocalypse, Drama, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Apocalypse, Rebuilding, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-14 19:13:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11214477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/backseatghibli/pseuds/backseatghibli
Summary: The world is a desolate wasteland. In the attempt to rebuild civilization, a group of friends brought together by the Tribulation find each other again to build one of the most successful societies in what was once America.





	Tunnels

_**introduction** _

 

_“Well be-bop-a-lula, she's my baby, be-bop-a-lula, I don't mean maybe…”_

The audio crackles as the reels turn. A faint buzz can be heard under the track. It’s cold. Aleksander has two wool blankets wrapped around his body, which is clothed in a deep blue, nearly black, sweatshirt. He can barely see, he lost his glasses a month ago. He’s sure they’re in the pile of junk he’s hidden in the storage closet, almost certainly bent by now.

_“Be-bop-a-lula, she's my baby love, my baby love, my baby love…”_

This song is ridiculous. _Ridiculousness is better than silence,_ he thinks with a sigh. _Besides, you have other tapes._

It’s too cold to get up. Aleks can feel the metal bedframe pressing into his thighs through the thin, gym mat-like mattress. The mattress cover is vinyl, snagged, and scratches his legs. Aleksander remembers a local mattress depot commercial with a cartoon Goldilocks, the best bed displaying a big logo. _Juuuuuuuuuust right._ If only.

_“Well she's the girl in the red blue jeans, she's the queen of all the teens...”_

Red blue jeans? Who wrote this? Aleksander scoffed and dropped his blankets on the bed. His feet, padded with thick woolen socks, didn’t make any noise despite his heavy step. He pressed down on the scratched plastic pause button and let his finger loiter on the texture. He moved it, up-down up-down. He wishes the plastic was scarred skin, which it reminds him of, or any skin at all, which he longs to feel against him. Warm, strong arms wrapped fast around him or the thin, fragile, soft skin of lips against his own.

He hears the lock on the large metal door unlatch. Cal, it must be. It swings open, heavy and thick, with a large gust of air. A few bits of dirt fall onto the tiled floor. Cal clicks off his flashlight and sets it down on the end table next to the door. He turns and shakes his umbrella, thickly coated with snow, opposite their room. Cal swings the door back into place and the dirt-walled tunnel disappears. “The snow is sticky out there. Nips like a bitch,” He remarks, placing his umbrella next to the flashlight and reaching for the zipper on his puffy winter coat. He’s carrying one of those old plastic shopping bags from some grocery store chain.

“Found a guy that gave me a dozen eggs for the flour. Some old guy. Amish or mennonite or sum’m.” Cal treads to the middle of the room and puts down the eggs on the quaint 2-person dining table, carefully, instead of tossing them like he did his flashlight and umbrella.

“Amish?” Aleks inquired with a high tone. There weren’t many Amish people in Texas, at least anymore, but they had moved far from Austin during the Tribulation so they could have more land around them.

“Something like it,” Cal quipped, opening the bag and stirring around in it. “Big beard, a hat, this weird black outfit.”

“I’m a little jealous,” Aleks remarked, sitting down and mushing his cheek into his hand. “Never had to deal with losing electricity or the internet or whatever.” His voice was wavering and a bit breathy, as if he wasn’t completely interested. He wasn’t, apparently. He was looking at the transistor radio on the nightstand. The antenna was bent, but it still worked well if you messed with it a little.

He’d made a friend on it a couple of months ago. He said his nickname was “Vagabond”. It wasn’t unusual to have a false name nowadays. Aleks kept his because he wanted something to keep for himself, just one thing for himself.

He told Vagabond that his name was Stardust, looking at an old vinyl record, Bowie, lying on the floor. A few days later, the infant hours of the morning, Stardust and Vagabond are speaking directly into their radios with hushed voices.

“My name is Elias,” Vagabond admits. Aleksander could hear shuffling on the other end. Elias was uncomfortable.

“Aleksander,” he replied. “Nice to meet you, Elias.”


End file.
